


The Sweetness of Forbidden Fruit

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Community: hp_nextgen_fest, Cross-Generation Relationship, Harry Potter Next Generation, Implied Albus Severus Potter/Charlie Weasley, Infidelity, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Semi-Public Sex, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-19 14:14:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8211440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Ron had a problem. A pretty big problem. But it was alright because he'd learnt to live with it and he could deal with it just fine. Except that when when others notice that problem they naturally want to help. How was it polite to say that you really, really didn't need that help?In the end, it would only make things so much worse.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know where this came from. It’s not the usual sort of story that I write at all, but for some reason the story just stuck and wouldn’t leave me alone until I wrote it! Thanks so much to **gracerene** for your prompt, and I hope it fits. I wasn’t sure whether it was an or/both pairing suggestion in the prompt but it just sort of fit this way. Anyway, enjoy!

It was wrong. It was so, so wrong.

It shouldn't happen. More than that, Ron shouldn't want it to happen. He was a married man - a happily married man with two beautiful children who were just peeking into adulthood. He loved his wife, was content with his job, and had the best and closest friends in the world.

Maybe that was the main problem. Maybe he felt just a little too strongly about his friends.

Ron didn't know when it had started, but it had endured for years. That niggling thought, the unquenchable desire, because there was no way in hell that Ron could sate it. Not with Harry, anyway. For that was the problem: Harry. Or, more correctly, Ron had a problem _about_ Harry. Well, not about Harry exactly either, but it was sort of Harry's fault. Only that, well, Harry really didn't have any say in the matter, hadn't done anything to deserve the direction of Ron's thoughts except for the fact that he existed.

In short, Ron desperately wanted - needed even, sometimes - to fuck his best friend.

No, he couldn't remember when the urge had started. It was almost as though it had always been there, ever since he'd started learning just what it was that sparked a fire in his belly when he looked at Harry. Was he fourteen when it had started? Fifteen? Ron wasn't sure. All he knew was that quite often that feeling of jealousy that he had always construed as holding alight for Harry was sometimes... confused. Jealous? Maybe, but for other reasons than those he told Harry he felt, that Hermione interpreted as being.

What was it about Harry that made Ron want him so much? Ron wasn't sure, didn't know if he wanted to know. All he did know was that some nights he would lie awake with the almost insuppressible urge to touch himself with thoughts of his best friend. That wasn't how one was supposed to think of their friend, right? Their oldest, most loyal and closest friend. Certainly not a friend who was married to his sister, was similarly happily married and had children of his own. But no matter how Ron rationalised it, he couldn't help himself. He wanted.

It was a want that could never be fulfilled, he knew, but he couldn't shake it any the less. It was a physical urge, nothing but lust involved, a desire to explore that which he couldn't touch. He loved Harry, true, but not like that. Not like he loved Hermione. It was _different_. It was just a... an unscratchable itch, a niggle that was always there. Ron had grown used to it, had come to the understanding that he would always have it. That was simply it.

At least, that's what he'd always thought until the night of his daughter's twentieth birthday.

It was midsummer, smack-bang in the midst of the hottest part of the year and Ron was feeling it. Blessedly, however, the Red Dragon was ironically quite cool. A Mexican joint that had opened up on the central street of Wizarding Britain, it had become something of the Weasley-Potter meeting point. Ron, Hermione, Harry and Ginny went there at least once a month, had done so since their children were kids, as a habit that persisted. It was a raucous joint, large and sprawling and more than just a restaurant; there was the dance floor lit up with magical lights that flashed red, orange and yellow, the distant bar directly opposite to the dining area, the gardens around the side that led to relative quietness in an offer of peace from the mayhem of the overloud indoors. For it was always loud in the Red Dragon, with the jovial music of banjo, maracas and bongos pounding out a tune that set knees to jiggling and toes to tapping. Not so much as to prevent conversation but certainly enough that one had to strain the ears a little to hear the words of another across the table.

Ron loved it. He always had. They all had, and Rose - his bluntly frank and bookish Rose - was only another lover of the establishment.

On Rose's twentieth birthday, it was something of a reunion of their family. Of the entire extended family, actually, which served to fill up a good quarter of the restaurant. Ron's parents sat at one end alongside Hermione's, Percy and Audrey a little ways down alongside their two girls and Charlie beside Bill as he and Fleur engaged in avid conversation. George and Angelina were a little further, though Angelina had already disappeared twice to drag her wayward son back from the bar and his attempts to chat up the locals that populated the bar stools; never let it be said that Fred wasn't an opportunist. He wasn't the only one either, though Angelina evidently felt that he was the only one in need of supervision. Teddy and Victoire had been missing for nearly half an hour already, an admirable feat given that they'd both arrived barely an hour before their disappearance.

Ron himself sat on the end of the table with Hermione at his side and Harry and Ginny across from him. Rosie was engrossed in a conversation of something or other with James, who looked thoroughly out of his depth, while Louis at her other side, though largely ignored, appeared far more understanding of her blabbering. Never let it be said that Rose didn't take after her mother; she may have inherited Ron's colouring but it was definitely Hermione's brain and tongue that sat in her head.

Ron loved the scene. He loved the feeling of being surrounded by his family, his friends, his children. Once, the size of his family had exhausted him; he'd felt like nothing so much as a number in the larger pool, overlooked and starved for attention. That had changed over the years as he grew comfortable with himself. He was happy, content; even the constant niggle in his gut that arose almost every time he looked at Harry, something that was, as frequently happened, occurring more persistently that night, could mostly be overlooked. When Harry smiled in a manner that was almost a smirk, when he tilted his head just slightly towards Ginny as she captured his attention, when he laughed at something James said to him as he paused Rose in her flow to ask what looked like a plea of sorts of his father. He'd aged remarkably well, Ron thought, with grey only just starting to touch his hair and the shadow of wrinkles his forehead. They all had, and Ron didn't think it was particularly arrogant to think as much. It wasn't possible for himself and Harry to remain anything but fit and healthy with the careers they'd chosen, while Ginny, though retired from the league herself, was still an active sportswoman. And Hermione... somehow, regardless of the grey touching her own hair, the slight softening to her frame and the touch of sagging to her skin, Ron always saw the young woman she had been. He knew he always would.

When Ron turned to his wife, it was to experience just that retrospection. He found himself smiling as he took a sip of wine, the warmth of alcohol and affection spreading through his chest. It was a different kind of warmth to that he'd always felt looking at Harry but he felt it nonetheless. And, as always, as though sensing his gaze, Hermione glanced up from her discussion with Hugo and flashed him a smile.

There. Always the same smile. The same as it always had been.

"You want a refill, Dad?"

Rose's voice drew Ron's attention back across the table. "What?"

Rose had half risen from her seat, an uncorked bottle of Ruddy Blues in hand. She shook the bottle indicatively, raising an eyebrow. "You're not working tomorrow, right? Want another?"

Ron chanced a glance at his nearly empty glass before nodding. "Sure, why not? Not every day your eldest turns twenty, is it?"

Though she rolled her eyes, the slightest of smiles still touched Rose's lips as she leaned across the table to fill his glass once more. "You're a dork."

"I'm a dad. It's my prerogative."

"It'll happen to you one day, Rose," Harry said, accepting a similar refill with a grateful smile. "Don't be too quick to shoot down the possibility."

Rose lowered herself into her seat with a shake of her head after filling her own glass. "Nope, I'm staying single and childless for the rest of my life. Married to my career, I'll be."

"Hey, I want grandchildren!" Ron objected.

"Which is why you have Hugo."

"Are you designating me to the role of brood mare?" Hugo asked, frowning as if disgruntled. It was all a farce, of course. Ron knew his son well enough to know that he would likely be married with children within five years, if not having adopted a horde before then. Hugo was a sap for kids, even at only eighteen. Ron had no idea where he'd gotten it.

"It's my birthday, I can do anything I want," Rose replied.

"I don't think that's really how it works."

"Speaking of children, aren't you missing one or two?" Hermione asked, scooping a corn chip from her plate and taking a bite. Halfway through dinner and the seemingly endless rounds of dishes - nachos and burritos, rice and bean salads and little pots of guacamole that Ron noticed Louis had rapidly monopolised and way making his way though as the staple for his own meal - were still in surplus. It was just the way Ron liked it, really. They were a big family, so why shouldn't they have enough to feed everyone and then some?

Ginny sighed in open exasperation as she picked at the remains of her own meal. "Knowing Al and Lily, they probably got waylaid with doing each other's hair or something."

"Each other's?" Ron asked, grinning.

Ginny nodded, exchanging an eye roll with Harry before pausing for another bite of taco. "Lily's going through her glamour phase of the year -"

"It's a midsummer thing," James explained, as though the rest of the table within earshot didn't know of Lily's fashion tendencies well enough. She fluctuated between obsessive-compulsive fashion sense and complete disregard. As Ron had come to learn, it had something to do with the change of seasons.

"Unfortunately for Al, Lily appears to have taken him under her wing this year," Ginny continued, shaking her head. "She says she's had enough of that mop he calls hair and has resolved to do something about it."

"That's a little harsh," Rose reprimanded of her absent cousin. "Al's actually tidied himself up a little since we got out of school. Even more since he's been overseas, I think."

"When did he get in, by the way?" Ron asked curiously. He had hardly seen his nephew in the past two years. Taking up the proffered internship under Charlie - of all people, Ron hadn't seen Al as being the type to take an interest in dragons but then he'd always been a bit of a unique kid - he'd travelled to the sanctuary in Romania that Charlie had made his home for nearly two decades now and had barely been seen since. Ron hadn't even known if he would return for Rose's birthday, despite the fact that he and Rose were as thick as thieves when they were children. Charlie had arrived that night on schedule without Al, though he'd said that the younger man was definitely on his way. "Are we even sure he's coming?"

"Ron, I quite literally just said that he was with Lily," Ginny sighed, exasperated.

"Is that just an assumption, or do you actually know that?"

"He's got you there, Mum," James pointed out. "There's no real way to know with Al. He seems off with the fairies half the time. I wouldn't be surprised if he'd accidentally forgotten about Rose's birthday and had taken himself back to Romania already."

"He wouldn't!" Rose exclaimed, as affronted as she was defensive. She picked up a bean and tossed it at James' head to James' exaggerated, "Ow" and Hermione's, "Rose, really?" Rose ignored both of them. "He's only just gotten in. He wouldn't do that to me, not on my birthday."

"Don't worry, Rosie," Harry hastened to reassure her with a smile. "He said he still had to give you a present and everything."

"Still, he's a vague little shit. I wouldn't put it past him to think he'd already given it to you," James chuckled. He dodged another of Rose's bean more deftly this time, who subsided at Hermione's chiding and heatless, "Rose Weasley, I don't care if it's your birthday, if you throw another bean I'm hexing your fingers to your knife and fork".

Ron could only chuckle at the antics of his daughter and the words of his nephew. James was right in that regard; Al always had been a little on the vague side, though Hermione always claimed he was more perceptive and intelligent than people gave him credit for. Which he was, probably. He'd done admirably at school, passed his N.E.W.T.s with flying colours that, while not quite on par with Rose's grades, could have very easily gotten him just about anywhere he wished.

Instead he'd gone to study with dragons, effectively disappearing for the last two years. Ron hadn't seen him for over a year and if it wasn't for Rose's updates to the nature of his survival he would have almost suspected he'd wandered into a dragon pen and gotten himself eaten. It would have been a shame, really, in the mildest view to such a situation. Ron had always liked the boy.

"If I know our Lily - which I like to think I do after eighteen years - she'll appear at the climax of the night in a spray of colours and fanfare," Harry said with a fond smile. The sort of smile that Ron could relate to for his own experience yet had to look away from because... well, he couldn't really let himself stare at Harry for too long when he looked like that.

"So, birthday cake?" James suggested.

"I'm putting my bet on the birthday cake," Harry agreed.

"Are we actually setting up a pool this time, or is it exclusive?" Ron asked, already pulling his wallet from his pocket. It was a testament to how much of a tradition Lily's late arrivals were that Hermione didn't bat an eyelid; she was usually the one to get up in arms about anything that even vaguely resembled betting.

"I've got paper," Hugo offered, ducking under the table to filch around in the bag that he carried with him everywhere. Ron still had never quite been able to work out exactly what it was that his son felt integral to carry around with him at all times. Paper, apparently.

He reappeared a moment later and they set about placing their bets. Harry settled for the birthday cake, James for the 'father's speech' while Rose sighed and grumbled that out of everyone's it would be _her_ speech that would be most likely to be interrupted out of them all. Ron put his own speculations down for when dessert arrived and by that point just about everyone in earshot had joined in, making the list a compilation of speculations from at least half of the family.

Traditions were strong amongst the Weasley-Potters.

As it turned out, Rose was right. Ron could have sworn that she was even putting off her speech until her cousins arrived but simply couldn't be bothered to wait any longer. When dinner was cleared and in the interim before cake and dessert, Ron rose to his feet. He'd become something of an old hand at offering thanks to guests and appreciation for the growth of his daughter. Hermione loosed a tingling sound from her wand that chimed along the length of the table, grabbing everyone's attention before she cast a Muffling Charm in their immediate vicinity. It wouldn't last long against the battering of the surrounding noise but that hardly mattered.

Raising his glass, Ron turned a scan and smile upon the entire table. "Right, so, we'll get the formalities out of the way, shall we?"

"Always so eloquent of you, Ron," George called from up the table. "Did you spend hours coming up with that opening line?"

The muted chuckles did little to affect Ron's good humour. He was happy, content, and the teasing of his siblings had long since stopped affecting him as they once had. He only smiled at George and, in a way that he knew would annoy him, pointedly ignored him. "Well, then I guess I just have a brief word to say. To my Rosie," he turned and tipped his wine glass towards his daughter once more. Rose gave him a small yet warm smile, quite removed from the embarrassment that used to capture her at every birthday when Ron did exactly the same in her youth. "You're a wonder, sweetheart. We're all so proud of what you've made of yourself this year - can't tell you how shocked we all were when you got that job under the Deputy Minister -"

"Is that a compliment or a criticism, Uncle Ron?" Fred called from up the table to several more appreciative chuckles. Fred had inherited George's sense of humour, that was for sure.

Ron ignored the comment once more, meeting Rose's gaze with his own and attempting to convey the affection and pride he felt for her. "Really, you're making a swell job of yourself. Twenty years and you've already ticked off half your bucket list. Slow down a little, kid, or you'll make the rest of us feel bad." Then, to Harry and Ginny's chuckles and Hermione's amused chiding, he leaned across the table and planted a kiss upon Rose's cheek. She accepted the gesture with a smile and without a word, just as she did his so-called 'speech'. Complain as she might as to the 'dorkiness' of her parents, she and Hugo both were more than obliging of Ron and his failed attempts at expressing his pride.

Hermione followed him with her own far more eloquent words, then Rose stood to her own feet to speak. It was just as she'd begun that Ron caught a glimpse of Lily and Albus entering the restaurant across the far side of the room. When he did, Rose's words were completely lost from his attention.

The Red Dragon was full on a Friday night, so the arching doorway was half hidden behind diners and passing waiters, behind platters of empty plates whizzing back towards the kitchens when they were finished with. The noise overrode any possible sound of his niece and nephew's entry, so it was only by chance that Ron saw them at all.

Lily was indeed very much in her glamour phase. Her vibrant red hair had been coiled and curled into an elaborate half-up style atop her head, her face made up to picture-perfection in a way that Ron never really thought of as being all that much different to her non-glamour winter phase. She had dressed herself in Muggle garb as was more common of the younger witches and wizards these days, her slim, fitted dress of swooping neckline falling short of her knees above shoes that should have been impossible to walk in. A quick scan of the room and she was trotting through the flying plates and skirting around tables towards their own.

Ron barely saw her, however. His attention was firmly affixed upon Al instead.

Al had always looked the most like Harry out of all of their children. He was largely of the same frame, but the most striking similarity lay in the hair, that untamable hair that Harry himself had long since chopped off in an attempt to contain but Al appeared to embrace rather than suppress. The hair and the eyes, those eyes that Ron had always found enchanting in their sharp intensity when upon his friend.

On Al it was different. He wore his hair longer and scruffier, though Lily appeared to have wrangled it back into a tie at the nape of his neck that resembled Charlie's to a T. Ron wondered if Lily had similarly been at him about his clothes, if he'd been raked into her antics in the heat of the moment against his will or if it was of a new inclination of his own as Rose had suggested. It wouldn't surprise him if it were the former; Lily was a determined personality, knew what she wanted and tended to get it through sheer persistence.

Jeans weren't supposed to be so tight. Untucked shirts and casual jackets should have looked scruffy. Calf-high boots that looked slept in for their wear should have looked dressed down for an outing, and especially in comparison to Lily's flamboyant showcasing in green and blue figure-hugging ruffles. But it wasn't. All in all, Ron couldn't draw his eyes away from Al, the boy who he hadn't seen in over a year. Maybe that was why? Maybe it was just the time apart that made Ron see him differently, perceive him in a different light. In a thoroughly distracting light. He surely couldn't have grown and changed all that much in such a short time, could he?

Or maybe it was the glasses. The glasses that Al hadn't worn since he was a kid but were now firmly settled upon his nose. Glasses shouldn't have looked so good either, so perfectly suited.

Ron found himself immediately thrown back to the past. To his adolescence, his young adulthood, when he'd truly come to realise just what that feeling that arose within him when he looked at Harry was. Al was different to Harry, _very_ different, but as he followed his sister across the room, reaching forwards to pause her in wait as Rose finished her short speech of gratitude to her family, Ron couldn't draw his eyes from him. From the way he walked - it really was just like Harry - to way he held himself that had an unspoken confidence and comfort in himself in a way that Harry hadn't acquired until he was at least half a dozen years older than Al. It was different yet the same.

And Ron couldn't. Stop. Staring.

"What does that make it? Am I... what is it, a hundred quid up for my efforts?" Rose said when she seated herself and turned to attend to Lily and Al's arrival.

"We actually rigged it because it's your birthday and we're so nice," James replied, flashing Rose a grin. Ron was grateful that he had taken the opportunity to speak as he doubted he himself would have been able to. He was struggling not to stare at Al too fixedly as he approached the table and hoped he was managing well enough that no one would notice.

"Don't give me that bollocks," Rose said, leaning back on her chair as Al skirted the table towards her. "I just have a sixth sense for this sort of thing." She was smiling when she said it, however, and when Al wrapped her in a hug with a "Sorry we're late. Happy Birthday," she squeezed him back.

"It's alright. It was Lily's fault, I'm sure."

For her part, Lily didn't appear abashed in the least for her lateness. She followed Al's precedent in her offer of embrace, wrapping brother and cousin in her arms with a beaming grin. "I have a reputation to uphold, Rose. Notice how I timed it especially for you so that you'd win the bet?"

"Oh, you did that specifically, did you?" James asked.

"Of course," Lily replied, straightening before offering Ginny and Harry a kiss on the cheek in turn. "Consider it part of my birthday present."

"Don't give me that, I saw you wink at Hugo." James scowled at his cousin without the slightest sincerity. "He buzzed you, didn't he? Hugo, you weren't supposed to rig the bet so that Rose would win!"

Hugo only smiled at Lily as she turned to make her way up the table, offering kisses to cheeks and fond greetings as she went. Ron hardly even noticed. He should have been paying more attention, should have been attending to Ginny's words, to Harry's and then Hermione's as they continued their conversation, but he couldn't seem to draw his attention away from Al. Al, who had slipped into the non-existent seat between Rose and Dominique so that his cousins had to shuffle to rearrange themselves - without objection, for Al wasn't the sort of person who raised objections from anyone - and immediately fall to talking to his childhood best friend. Ron was captivated in his staring. Had Al really always looked so much like Harry? He could see it when he really looked, could see Harry's face in his jaw, in his shoulders that hadn't quite broadened as his father's had under the rigorous Auror training. It was in the slight adjustment of his glasses, square not circular as Harry's were and black-framed but similar enough so as to overlook the differences.

Ron stared, and he couldn't help but notice the tightening in his gut.

It was wrong. _That_ was wrong, even more so than his unspoken lusting for Harry was. Ron didn't think he was gay, for he'd never felt such a feeling for anyone besides Harry before. No one but Harry and Al, that was, because all of a sudden - very suddenly - Ron realised that it was the same. The same feeling. The same urge.

Ron had never wanted to actively cheat on Hermione. He didn't want to hurt her like that but... but he just couldn't help it. In his mind, he'd fucked Harry more times that he cared to admit, than he could even remember. At times, it was the only way that he could alleviate his frustrations. Why did he think like that? What was wrong with him? He was cultured enough to know that there was nothing wrong with homosexuality itself - he only had to look at Charlie to know that much - but surely a married man shouldn't be lusting after another quite so fervently. Certainly not their best friend, and even more definitely not their best friend's son.

 _What_ was _wrong_ with him?

Ron almost missed the cake and the arrival of dessert entirely for his staring. It wasn't until a mildly surprised Hermione prompted him - likely surprised because Ron _never_ passed up a meal - that he was able to tear his gaze away from the young man across the table. He only hoped that no one else had noticed, for he could hardly attend to the words around him with the focus of his attention. It was... it was almost obsessive.

He watched as Al passed a parcel to Rose, was enveloped in a hug a moment later and adopted a smile that was small and fond and so similar to Harry's that it was uncanny. He watched as they chatted and didn't hear a word, attempting to contribute as much as he could to the conversations with his friends and family so as not to appear incriminating. He barely tasted the baked flan as he spooned a bite into his mouth because his gaze was straining not to be drawn towards Al, towards the way that he scooped at his own dessert, to the way that he - oh God, the way he _licked_ his spoon in an entirely seductive manner.

But that was the main problem. It likely wasn't intended to be seductive at all. He was like Harry in that regard too; Harry had never intended to invoke erotic thoughts in those around him when he ate, even if Ron knew for a fact that Ginny perceived it as such at times. What was with that? Like father like son, he supposed.

Ron probably drank more than he should have. When James offered another refill, he managed a smile and a nod before grasping the proffered glass and downing half of it in one swallow. It did nothing to stem the pervading heat in his gut, or to distract Ron from his sidelong staring. His only hope was that please, _please_ let Hermione not notice. Not for the first time and in a remarkably similar situation to that which Ron frequently found himself hoping for such, he pleaded that Hermione wasn't quite as observant in such instances as Ron's misguided thoughts as she was with everything else. She hadn't appeared to notice in the past so... Ron could only hope her ignorance persisted in this instance too.

Maybe it wasn't so much Hermione that Ron should have been pleading to, however.

Ron had thought he'd been subtle. He'd managed to engage Harry in a half-hearted - or at least half-hearted on his part - conversation about the aftermath of their most recent case of which confidentiality had finally been marginally lifted. It was a sort of distraction from the _very-much_ distraction that had been Al since his arrival but wasn't truly all that effective. Ron still found himself watching Al from his periphery as he talked to Rose, as he called something up the table to Charlie and as he - dammit, why couldn't Rose finish her own dessert? Did she have to give hers to him? It was bloody distracting and... no, distracting was the least of Ron's problems that arose from such a glimpsed sight.

But even for all his efforts, Ron couldn't manage to look away entirely. He timed his glances, his full glances, to ensure he didn't look too often. Timed them also so as to appear casual, at a break in conversation, when he reached for his wine glass that - how many had he had now? It didn't really matter. Ron only hoped that the countless gulps would extinguish the heat pooling in his belly that just did _not_ seem to want to abate.

He'd thought he was doing well, thought he was being subtle. He even managed to orchestrate the conversation so that Hermione and Ginny, momentarily distracted in a discussion of their own, were included and he made a less active participant in the discussion he shared with Harry. Ron hadn't bargained on the fact that though Al always had been vague he wasn't oblivious. Apparently he was far from it.

When Ron glanced his way once more, under the farce of filling up his wine glass in a way that wasn't really a farce at all, he met Al's gaze. Al, who had paused momentarily in whatever he'd been doing, whoever he'd been conversing with, to stare back at Ron. That stare... that wasn't one that Ron had ever seen on Harry's face before. It was contemplative, almost understanding, and the longer their eyes met the more understanding it grew. A small, barely perceivable smile touched Al's lips.

Ron had to look away. From the smile, the stare, the _knowing_. He'd never seen Harry look at him like that before and was abruptly glad that he hadn't. An uncomfortable tightness had grown in his pants and he was only too grateful for the fact that he was sitting, that the fall of his robes would serve to hide his arousal from Hermione at his side. He resolved not to look at Al throughout the dinner.

He failed. Dismally.

Thankfully, the sit-down aspect of their dining didn't last all that much longer. One of the best parts of the Red Dragon's restaurant experience was the actual experience following the dining. When the hour hit nine o'clock, the music that had been loud but not overloud before kicked it up a notch. It was often easier just to forego any further attempts at conversation and just make the most of what was offered.

Lily appeared to be making up for her lateness by assuming the role of the life of the party. She'd been talking non-stop since the moment she'd arrived almost an hour before and, though Ron had been thoroughly distracted by his own increasingly noticeably problem, he hadn't been able to ignore that fact.

It was Lily that leapt to her feet first when the blaring music of clamouring maracas and tapping drums resounded with increased volume around the room. Trotting along the length of the table in her ridiculous shoes, she immediately grabbed an arm each of Ron's parents and drew them to their feet. Neither were young anymore and were at the stage where they tottered just a little in standing, but the bright bubbliness Lily radiated clearly had a positive effect upon them both. Molly and Arthur Weasley were never happier, their smiles never wider, than when in the company of their extensive family. Neither would pass up the chance to follow Lily onto the rapidly filling dance floor, even if Arthur used a walking stick these days and Molly always complained that her knees 'weren't up to the task anymore'.

The children - or the Weasley grandchildren more correctly - all lurched to their feet moments later. Fred disappeared with a call from Angelina chasing after him and Rose dragged Al after her to immediately disappear into the pooling mass of people. Ron was actually almost relieved to see Al go, even if a very distinct and thoroughly embarrassing feeling of disappointment accompanied that relief. He tamped it down as Hermione plucked at his arm, urging him to follow as she and the rest of their table similarly rose to standing. "Are you alright, Ron? You seem a little distracted."

 _You could say that again_ , Ron thought, though a little might be something of an understatement. He'd barely been able to look away from his nephew – Merlin, his _nephew_ \- all night, and the glances he'd felt Al shoot him increasingly in return hadn't done anything to benefit his attempts in the slightest. Al clearly knew something was afoot. Ron could only hope he didn't quite understand what it was.

Offering Hermione a smile, Ron shook his head. "Just a little overfull, I think."

"You? Overfull?" Ginny snorted as she readjusted her robes in standing, looping her arm through Harry's a moment later. "You have the gut of a dragon, Ron. I don't think you could ever actually get full."

"Thanks for your contribution, Ginny. It's much appreciated."

"Are you sure you're alright?" Harry asked, frowning slightly. He'd taken a step towards the dance floor, towards the riot of what could hardly be called dancing already erupted, but paused at Ron's words. "You have been looking a little peaky through dinner."

"Maybe something in the food's not agreeing with you?" Hermione suggested.

Ginny snorted again with a grin. "The day food doesn't agree with one of my brothers is the day it should stop being made, in my opinion, because there would have to be something very wrong with it indeed for that to happen."

Ron scowled at Ginny but it was only half-heartedly. He didn't have the thought-space for it in that moment. "Have you had enough of commenting on my dietary habits?"

"Never."

"Well, thank you. You know how I never get tired of your words."

"I only speak the truth as I see it."

"Would you like me to get you a glass of water?" Hermione asked, her expression worried in that of a likeminded impression of Harry's. Really, what did Ron ever do to deserve the both of them? And here he was thinking such untoward thoughts. What would they even think if they discovered what was going on in his head, not only about Harry but about Al, too? He was suddenly very grateful for the Occulmency lessons he'd undertaken in Auror training. No one should know what thoughts crossed his mind.

Shaking his head, Ron spared both Hermione and Harry a grateful glance. "Nah, I'm fine. I think I might just take a turn outside for a moment."

"I'll come with you," Hermione offered, Harry nodding at the same time. Even Ginny, for all her teasing, looked open to accompanying him. They were the only ones of their table not yet dancing and Ron could only love them all the more for their loyalty.

He shook his head once more, slipping his arm from Hermione's grasp. "I'm fine, really. I won't be long, I promise. I'll just be a bit, yeah?" Then, before any could object further, Ron turned and made his way towards the door and the gardens beyond. He could almost feel the gazes of his wife and friends on his back but didn't look over his shoulder, striving for composure as he left the restaurant proper.

The Red Dragon gardens were a world apart from the interior restaurant, bar and dance floor. Dark, barely illuminated by characteristically red will o' wisps that danced around the perimeter, it was calm and soothing compared to the excitement from indoors. There must have had some sort of Muffling Charm settled upon it, for the music was dampened to a distant, background hum. It was... calming.

Ron released a sigh as he stepped onto the pale path that was about the only thing he could see in the dark. That and the shrubs and withering bushes that no amount of magic seemed capable of sustaining in the midsummer heat. It was warm outdoors, a residue of the heat of the day, but compared to that which encompassed Ron's body it was practically mellow. He wasn't sure whether it was his unshakeable arousal or the drink that drove him to such discomfort.

Wandering along the path, Ron paused at a little bench wedged between two slightly taller bushes and lowered himself to sitting. Dropping elbows onto knees, he rested his head in his hands and sighed once more, closing his eyes to the red will o' wisps that drifted around him to illuminate his seat. Really, what was he to do with himself? He was a lost cause. What kind of a person sat at their daughter's birthday unshakably weighted by the notion of fucking his best friend who sat across from him? Who was distracted by the thought of doing the same to his friend's son for his resemblance but also the slight and intoxicating differences to his father? And worse than that, right beside his wife. He loved Hermione, he did, but the building need within him just wouldn't leave him be.

Ron scrubbed at his face, raking fingers across his scalp. He didn't know if he could go back inside, not now and maybe not for the rest of the night. It would probably upset Rose and just as likely distress Hermione, but perhaps he could plea off with an actual stomach bug? Take himself home and away from temptation? Ron had long since acclimatised himself to Harry, could deal with Harry and what he felt for him, but Al? Al was a spanner in the works, a _Confundus_ Charm that Ron had absolutely no idea of how to deal with. Even worse than that, he found that he couldn't draw himself away from his thoughts of his nephew. Of his _nephew_. It was as though in the past hour he was gradually encroaching on his mind, the tilt of his chin and the sidelong glances, the quirk of his lips stacking up alongside countless other features that Ron had noticed of him that night. How had he only just noticed them? Al hadn't always been like that, had he? He was the skinny little kid who appeared largely vague to the world and of an amiable and loving character, that drew people to him but never with untoward thoughts. That was Al, wasn't it? What was wrong with Ron that he thought of him any differently?

Ron wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting outside for when he heard footsteps approaching him. He didn't look up immediately; it was just as likely to be another diner as it would be one of his family. Except that -

"Are you alright, Ron?"

Ron's head snapped up from the cradle of his hands at the sound of Al's voice. Al's voice that could have been Harry's from twenty-odd years ago and now resounded in his head like the echo of a bell. He struggled with the urge to lurch to his feet.

Al stood barely three steps from him. The glow of the surrounding will o' wisps was enough to illuminate him in shades of red and grey, in a way far too seductive for the direction of Ron's thoughts at that moment. The shadows played across his form, accentuating the paleness of his face and his arms that he'd freed of his jacket at some point over the past however long it had been. The way he stood was in an entirely suggestive manner that Ron wasn't sure he even knew he assumed; Al wouldn't, would he? The slight slouch of his hip, the tilt of his head, the way he rested a hand on his hip with thumb hooked into a pocket. He wasn't a big man, hadn't the broadness of his brother or father, and that difference was only enhanced by the darkness, by the shadows and contrasting light that drew Ron's eyes along his body without his consent.

Ron shouldn't look. He had to.

It was only after a long moment of staring, of silence as he stared, that Ron realised he hadn't answered Al's question. That his mouth had become abruptly dry and the composure that he'd struggled to reassert upon himself had all but vanished. He swallowed several times, struggling to rid his mouth of that dryness. The croak of his voice as he spoke suggested he didn't quite manage. "I'm... I'm alright. Just..."

"Getting a breather."

"Yeah." Ron nodded, sitting back in his seat and attempting to swallow once more. He very pointedly did not think about the tightening in his belly, the heat that he could feel welling through his chest, into his cheeks, even stretching down to his fingertips. "Yeah, just getting a... a breather."

Al nodded as though understanding. Ron could make little of his expression at such a distance, yet as though hearing his thoughts and responding to them Al took a step forward. One. Then two. Then yes, Ron could see his face now. It didn't help him at all. If anything it made it worse to be looking up into his dark eyes behind the faint reflectiveness of his glasses, into the faint curiosity and question touching his brow.

"You didn't look so well over dinner," Al murmured, for his voice had abruptly hushed as though to better suit the quietness of the outdoor setting. He shuffled forwards slightly, just enough that his knees were nearly brushing against Ron's. "Is something wrong? Did you want to tell me something?"

Yes. Yes, there was definitely something wrong. Something very wrong, and Ron wanted to tell Al that his presence, how close he was standing, was only making it all the worse. But he couldn't, because his mouth was abruptly parched once more and he couldn't speak even if he'd thought that admitting as much to Al would have been a good idea. No, he didn't want to tell Al anything at all.

Instead he shook his head. Al cocked his head slightly further to the side like a curious bird. "Really? 'Cause the way you were looking at me at dinner sort of suggested that you might."

Ron had been trying to avoid looking at Al directly. He'd tried, but at that moment, with those words, his attention abruptly snapped towards him. Al was... did he just...? Ron wasn't sure, couldn't be sure, but it almost sounded as though Al knew. That he suspected something. Which he couldn't, because this was Al; Al, who was Rose's best friend, who was as vague as Luna could be most of the time, who was... who was usually a very different person to how Ron had perceived him as being that night.

He hadn't seen Al in a year. Could someone truly change so much in such a short time? Was that even possible?

Ron wasn't sure and he didn't have the headspace to consider it either, even if he'd wanted to. Which he didn't. It was impossibly strange to consider that Al, little Albus Potter, could act in any way seductive, or enchanting, or arousing as Ron suddenly found him to be. That just wasn't possible. Except that the young man before him wasn't the little boy that Ron had known for his entire life. He wasn't even a mimic of Harry as Ron had momentarily considered him to be from the second he'd stepped into the Red Dragon alongside Lily. He was something else, something other, and for the first time Ron found himself well and truly attracted to a man other than Harry. A man similar to Harry but distinct nonetheless.

Far be it from his arousal dying, Ron felt himself grow only harder at the thought.

Al had somehow leant closer to Ron without his notice. He hands had dropped to his own knees and he was peering at Ron with eyes that blinked in slow, measured flutters behind his glasses, barely perceivable in the darkness. That curiosity, that open seductiveness that should have belonged to a siren not a boy of twenty, was captivating. "Ron?"

Ron's nieces and nephews had always called him by his name. Not 'Uncle Ron' or some other derivative of the term. Just Ron. It had never sounded quite like how Al said it, though, for which he was heartily thankful. The urge to reach up towards the young man who leant over him, who was so close and so suddenly tempting, was almost compulsive. Ron felt his hands twitch on his own knees, struggling to suppress the inclination to grab.

Somehow, Ron didn't know how but somehow, it seemed as though Al perceived Ron's need. That, or he was reading him in some other way, for a slow, small smile drew across his lips. He leant forwards a little further once more, just slightly, and shifted his hands to rest atop Ron's. "Ron?"

Swallowing once more - his throat was so tight it was almost painful - Ron shook his head. His voice was barely audible for its huskiness when he managed to speak. "It's nothing. I was just... it was nothing."

"Really?"

Damn him, but Al could somehow embed so much into a single word. So much suggestion and so much feeling, so much temptation that Ron almost groaned. He could feel the hot flush rise on his skin in a way that shouldn't be happening at all, that hadn't happened him in so long he couldn't even remember the last. He almost found like a teenager again, back in sixth year when Lavender had been propositioning him, except that this was worse. This was so much harder to resist.

"You don't have to hold it back, you know," Al murmured, barely loud enough to be heard. It was as though once again he was responding to Ron's thoughts and had Ron not been confident enough in his occluding abilities he would have sincerely considered he did. "I'm not oblivious and I doubt that after so long you are, too."

Ron stared up at Al. It was almost impossible to blink at all, for Al demanded his unwavering attention. There was the softness, the openness in his expression that he'd always had, that Ron had always associated with vagueness, but there was focus in place of distraction. As though Al had a target in his sights and his attention was wholly fixed upon it. Ron had never seen him like that before.

"What are you talking about?" He managed.

The smile on Al's lips spread coyly, but he didn't pause to dance around the subject. "I mean about my dad. About how you've carried a torch for him for - how long is it now? I don't know, I only noticed when I was about fourteen, but I assume it was longer than that, wasn't it?" He paused for a moment as though awaiting a reply, but Ron couldn't force a single word through his lips. Al shrugged, his hands readjusting atop Ron's until he leant with actual weight. Each point of contact felt hypersensitive and Ron would have been thoroughly distracted, his eyes drawn towards them, had he not been so captured by Al's gaze. "You want to fuck my dad."

It was the first time Ron had heard the notion spoken aloud. The way it was said, so bluntly, so starkly, flooded him with a gust of cold wind. Ron felt his breath freeze in his chest, his eyes widen. He was speaking before he could help himself. "Al, don't - don't say something like -"

"Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to say anything." Al raised a hand and waved it offhandedly, brushing Ron's words aside as though they were an irritating fly. He still smiled, however, calmly and almost soothingly, and when he dropped his hand back to Ron's it released a spreading warmth from the point of contact once more that seemed to vanquish his sudden chill. "I'm just stating a fact so that we can air the issue and come to a mutually beneficial conclusion. What do you think?"

Ron didn't know what to think. He didn't know what he was supposed to say. He felt like a fly caught in Al's web. "What do I think?"

Al shrugged once more. "I think you need to do something about it, but that's just my opinion. And I'd be happy to help you out with that."

"Help me out?"

"Mm." If Al leaned much closer he may as well be sitting in Ron's lap, a fact that wasn't as aversive as Ron knew it should have been. The expression he wore was definitely seductive. Where the hell did he learn something like that, something that could make Ron's breath come shorter every second beneath its attention and his arousal only swell alongside it? What sort of recreational activities did dragon keepers get up to exactly? "'Cause you know, you were watching me tonight, and I was watching you. And I figure, seeing as you seem to be interested, I could help you."

Ron was staring again. Staring as he had so often that night. At the darkness of Al's eyes, at the sharp lines of his face, the smooth, paleness of his neck as it dipped down to the opening in his shirt to reveal just a hint of his chest and collarbones. To touch upon his shoulders, the tightness of muscles just visible and tensed from the hold of his pose as he leant upon Ron's knees, the casual slouch of his hip. Everything about him seemed to radiate suggestiveness. Was he drunk? Ron certainly felt he was himself.

He found himself shaking his head almost against his will. "Al, I have no idea what you're talking about. You're being ridiculous. First of all, you're my nephew, so it wouldn't be appropriate to -"

"I notice how the fact that I'm your nephew comes before any such denials as to your inclinations," Al cut in, a touch of amusement to his tone. That damned smile that served to capture Ron in its thrall quirked coyly once more. "Personally, I don't have all that much of a problem with that kind of thing so..."

Ron heard something akin to a squeak utter from his lips and almost cringed at the pathetic sound. "No. No, it's not going to happen. Firstly, yes, you're my nephew. Secondly, I'm _married_ , Al, to your Aunt Hermione, and no matter how much I might want to I can't just -"

"It's just fucking, Ron," Al cut in once more. "Getting over your frustrations and all that. It doesn't mean anything."

"Al -"

"Seriously, it's not a big deal. I won't tell if you don't. You've been sitting on this for a while now, right? About my dad." His head cocked playfully in the other direction, smile widening. "Don't I look enough like him for you?"

Ron wondered if that was it. If that was the tactic that Al was using. Did he try to make himself look like Harry to draw Ron's attention? Could that be it? But surely not, because Harry had never dressed like Al was now, had never acted as he was acting now. It was entirely different. And besides, Ron wasn't so egocentric as to consider that Al did anything with Ron in mind. Truly, such an idea was foolhardy to say the least.

He didn't have another moment to think about it however. Not to compile further thoughts, to rationalise that no, it wouldn't be alright, that he was married and Al was his best friend's - and sister's - son, and that even a casual fuck could never just be that. He could blame his silence and confusion on his drunkenness, but really it wasn't that either. It was the fact that in that moment, Al leant forwards across the distance between them and pressed his lips against Ron's.

All thoughts of objection disappeared.

Al was warm. He was willing and actively reaching for Ron, his hands rising from where they'd been propped to draw around Ron's neck, to cup the back of his head. Quite without his direct consent, Ron found himself falling backwards in his seat once more, his legs spreading to allow Al to draw between them so that he could lean into him. His arms rose just as unintentionally and drew around Al's waist, tugging him into him.

It was wrong. It shouldn't happen. Ron shouldn't let it happen.

He couldn't help himself.

He lost himself in the feeling of Al pressing himself against him, to the warmth of his body, to the narrowness of his hips as they rocked against Ron's and the gentle caress of his fingers that stroked through his hair and along his jaw, down the nape of his neck. Ron felt his eyes close, felt himself fall prey to the sensation of Al's lips against his own. His body seemed to respond to the urgency of his needs, lips parting and tongue slipping forwards to curl between Al's, to stroke against the warmth of the inside of his mouth. He tasted like the sweetness of dessert and the thought of spoons and licking only drew a groan from Ron that urged him to grab onto Al all the tighter. He supposed that, should Al have any suspicion that he didn't want what he so sincerely attempted to suppress, it would have been erased in that moment.

Al was determined. He was focused in a way that Ron didn't know he could be. The vigor of their passionate kissing became only more intense by the moment, and Ron found himself almost rejuvenated like a young man again. He'd never kissed another man before, had never even considered it in his fantasies of Harry. He'd known it would never happen. And yet despite his inexperience in that regard, he found himself thoroughly captivated by the notion. Al was firmer, was harder, was more slender than a woman, and Ron couldn't help but let his hands graze from his hips up his back, to stroke down to his buttocks and then up again, to slip over the waistband of his jeans just to touch the soft skin beneath and to -

Was Al not wearing any pants? Why was...? Was he...? Ron had a niggling as to what that meant but he didn't have a moment to spare to consider it.

Because Al was determined. He was determined and persistent, and the way he moved, with open demand bereft Ron of any inclination towards denial. He sucked and nipped on Ron's lips, drawing Ron's tongue back into his mouth once more before drawing away. Then he'd dive back into clinging to him with lips and hands and pressing their bodies together so that there was not an inch between them. He'd at some point lowered himself to kneel on the bench between Ron's legs so that he was less hanging over Ron and more pressing into him. Ron found nothing to complain about that fact.

When he drew away once more, it was to pause, panting, his arms wrapped around Ron's shoulders and peering down into his eyes with an intensity that could have captured the hardiest man. Ron was not hardy, not in that moment. He couldn't have loosened his grasp from Al had he wanted to. "I want you to fuck me."

Ron swallowed. He was so hard that he didn't thought he could deceive a blind man as to his longing to do just that. But even so... "Al, I -"

"Don't even think about saying no," Al whispered, raising a hand briefly to swipe his fringe from his eyes. Tendrils had somehow loosened from his tie - was it Ron who'd done that? He couldn't remember - and there was a faint glisten to his skin, the dampness of sweat that in the red-stained darkness made it seem to glow. Ron couldn't blame him; it was hot, Ron was hot, the air was dry and he was parched. Not that he would even consider leaving for a moment to remedy that fact. He could object but - no, no he really couldn't. Besides, Al wasn't having any of it anyway. "I'm so horny right now, if you leave me to it I'm never going to talk to you again."

It was a childish threat, but in that moment Ron very definitely did not want to tempt fate. Merlin, but he wanted Al. So much. And yes, it might have something to do with his unending desire for Harry, a desire that had been a part of him for as long as he could remember, but it was also more than that. Al was captivating, consuming his senses, and he couldn't think of _not_ following through.

Instead, Ron just nodded, breathing heavily as he strained upwards to press his lips against Al's. Al obliged and they lost themselves in one another once more, the surrounding gardens blessedly empty and secretive in that privacy.

It was Al's fingers that fumbled at Ron's trousers, untangling his belt and unzipping him. His fingers brushed against Ron's hardness just enough to be felt and Ron found himself gasping. He wanted - he needed - to touch, to be touched, to... to... "Al. Fuck, can you - I need to, right now, can you -?"

"Yes, I'll - yes, god, please, yes," Al panted, the hand still cupping the back of Ron's head tightening harder. He pressed another kiss against Ron's lips, brief and chaste, before pulling away. Pulling further away, so that the warmth of his body withdrew slightly. Ron was bereft, momentarily horrified, before he realised that Al wasn't gone. That he hadn't left him on a precipice of need and desire. Instead he was... how in Merlin's name was he even managing to disentangle himself from his jeans like that? They were so tight as to be practically another layer of skin.

Yet Al managed, and yes, he wasn't wearing pants, and oh God, Ron couldn't help but stare at him. He'd never thought himself at all attracted to the male body - he had one of those himself so why would he be? - but there was something about Al, about the long paleness of his legs, the smoothness and slenderness that was entirely different to that of a woman. Ron raked his gaze from his toes to his hips and couldn't help but drop his hand to his hardness as he beheld Al's oven arousal. Of his own desire, the lust that was evidenced in more than just his manner. That was captivating in an entirely new way.

Al was clambering upon him once more an instant later, jeans discarded alongside his glasses with a careless toss. Climbing with gasps and moans, he straddled Ron's hips and reaching down between them to tug Ron's arousal free. His fingers curled around Ron and Ron couldn't suppress the gasping groan that erupted from him. His fingers latched onto Al's hips, holding him firmly, unwaveringly. He wanted. He _needed_.

"Al -"

"Yeah, I'm... just wait… I'll. –" was all Al managed. Then he was pressing himself into Ron once more, chest to chest, and Ron could feel the hardness of his arousal upon his belly, the slickness weeping onto his skin, before Al was capturing his lips once more. Except that a moment later even the ardor of that was lost, for Al shifted, adjusting himself, drawing Ron's shaft in a deliberate manner and then sinking himself onto him.

It was hot. It was tight. The sharp, spearing pangs of pleasure that sprung from Ron's groin invigorated every one of his nerves and tightened his muscles, sent sparks to dancing in his eyes. He threw his head back until it jolted on the back of the seat and gasped, eyes flaring wide. His hands clutched onto Al with the desire to never let go.

It was...

Al was...

 _Fuck_!

In the back of his mind, Ron knew it shouldn't have been so easy. He'd been curious enough about gay sex to explore the logistics and it shouldn't have happened as easily as it had. But in that moment he wasn't thinking about that. He wasn't thinking about anything besides the vice-light, quivering tightness pulsing around his hardness, about each pang of pleasure that made it nearly impossible to breathe, about the body atop him that was sinking further and further upon him, deeper, taking more of his as his settled in his lap.

Al. Fuck, he was fucking Al Potter. And it was fucking fantastic.

With a gasping moan, Al dropped himself fully onto Ron's lap. HIs arms were locked around Ron's neck, his breath coming heavily, and with each incremental movement, each tremble of his thighs spread on either side of Ron's and each shuddering inhalation, he felt him clench and tighten, loosen and accommodate around Ron. Then he was pressing his lips against Ron's, biting at his lips again and dragging them together once more.

"Ron," he gasped, and it was more of a moan that went straight to Ron's groin. "Ron, I need you to fuck me. Please, just do it. Please."

Ron didn't need any more incentive. He hadn't even known that Al was gay, but he certainly seemed to know what he was doing. And he was asking for it. He wanted it. Ron could have been a fool not to give it to him.

Grasping Al's thighs even more firmly, Ron took a final gasping breath before bucking into him. Al cried out, arms locking around Ron's neck as he pressed himself back into Ron in turn, but Ron barely even noticed. He bucked again, a haphazard thrust, and then again, and again until he managed a rhythm. The slap of skin on skin, mingled with his groans, with Al's cries that he muffled in Ron's shoulder, biting into his flesh in what would surely bruise later.

Ron didn't care. He didn't care about anything in that moment besides the feeling of Al seated on top of him, the tightness around his shaft, the slick warmth that clenched and tightened further as he withdrew only to thrust within Al once more. His hips were jerking with a will of there own, his fingers digging into Al's thighs hard enough that he'd likely leave bruises in turn, and his eyes squeezed closed as he bathed in the sharp feeling of pleasure that pulsed through him. At the building of intensity, the scaling of the mountain that had been rising within him throughout the entire night.

Ron thrust, the pleasure searing the inside of his eyelids and coursing along his spine, tingling in his fingers and toes. He thrust and the heat flooding his groin build to a raging fire. He thrust once more and with a shout he felt himself reach his peak, fingers digging like claws into Al's legs and feeling himself erupt in a pooling gush within him. Al loosed a muffled cry into his shoulder, his hips reacting to the pleasure that he too sought in rolling undulations. Ron had to squeeze his eyes closed at the sensations that flooded through him as each rocking motion, each squeezing of the tightness that grasped his flagging arousal, drew out his own pleasure all the more. A moment later and Al loosed a groaning cry once more and Ron felt a splattering wetness streak across his stomach.

Al slowed his motions. Gasping and heaving, he settled almost limply into Ron's lap, leaning heavily against him. For his part, Ron could only similarly sag, panting with his hands grasped unshakably upon Al's legs as though to keep him still. He didn't want to let go. The hazy pleasure fogging his mind was debilitating, short-circuiting the rest of his thoughts entirely, but that one remained strong. He didn't want... Al, he didn't want to ever, _ever..._

Al, on the other hand, appeared to have other ideas. They sat for a moment, a long moment, simply panting against one another, but when Al apparently deemed he'd spared enough time for catching his breath he pushed himself from Ron's chest so that he was sitting back in his lap. The feeling did interesting things to Ron, the tightening around his flaccid length not quite stimulating enough to call forth another round so swiftly; Ron doubted he'd manage another that night after their first effort. He felt thoroughly deflated.

But even had he been able to, Al appeared disinclined. With slow efficiency, the sort of motions that one much practiced in doing so took, he eased himself off of Ron and clambered back to standing. There was a moment where he wavered slightly, a moment in which Ron reached out an instinctive hand to steady him even if he was hardly lucid enough to offer any real support, but Al waved aside the gesture with a crooked smile. Then, turning towards his jeans, he produced his wand from somewhere and set to wordlessly cleaning himself up. He even spared one such spell towards Ron, disappearing the mess that Ron had hardly even noticed remained streaked upon his chest.

Ron watched it all unblinkingly. He couldn't draw his attention away. It was as though he'd been afforded new eyes; his gaze drew along the long, slender lines of Al's figure, the tightness of his calves and thighs, the shallow curve of his buttocks and narrow tapering of his waist to widen up his torso and shoulders. No, he wasn't a large or particularly built man, but he was certainly not a woman. Yet though Ron could hardly profess himself physically attracted to other men, he felt a need rise within him. A sore, hungry need that, even if his body complained he couldn't fulfill in that moment, his mind demanded he do so.

As Al, just as efficiently as before, began dressing himself once more, Ron tucked himself away, tied his belt and readjusted his robes before standing. He took two steps towards Al as he bent to slip his boots on, reaching for him without a word and drawing his face upwards with his hands. His lips were upon him a moment later, capturing his kiss with as much tenderness as he could manage. He should have felt guilty, that this was Al, his nephew, that he was betraying Hermione and his entire family, but he couldn't. Not right now. Maybe not ever. He just wanted Al.

Al allowed him to maintain their kiss for a moment longer. Allowed and reciprocated shallowly, but it was once more he who drew them apart. When Ron looked down at him, an angle that was strange after their frantic fucking of but minutes before in which Al had been the one leaning over him, he was smiling again in an oddly mature manner. As though Al were the older and wiser of the two of them. The one who knew what he was doing. Maybe he sort of was.

Cocking his head, Al peered up at him. "Better?"

Ron blinked. He was groggy from sex and the dregs of alcohol swirling through in his mind but he was fairly certain that Al's question didn't really make sense. "What?"

Al's smile widened slightly. "Just wondering if we managed to get it out of your system, is all. A thorough fucking can usually deal with that sort of thing."

He spoke with such an experienced tone that Ron was rendered speechless. Al, little Al who wasn't so little anymore and who - Merlin, who Ron truly had just thoroughly fucked. It seemed inconceivable. He'd been an innocent teenager, no, a child but yesterday, hadn't he? When had this happened?

Ron didn't know but he didn't get the chance to ask. Al seemed to take his silence for agreement. His smile widened further and with a swift motion he reached up on his toes a little and pressed a brief, chaste kiss upon Ron's lips. Really, it could have been the kiss of a nephew to an uncle, just as it should have been, but for the fact that it was on the lips. When he pulled away it was to smile with a moment of satisfaction and nod his head slightly. "Good, then. I'm glad I could help."

And that was it. That was all he said. Without another word, pausing only to readjust his boots with a stamp of his left foot and slip his glasses back onto his nose, Al turned and made his way back along the pale path towards the Red Dragon restaurant. He was but a shadowy figure, a wraith slipping through the ruddy darkness, before he was briefly illuminated by the doorway and disappeared inside. He didn't glance backwards once.

Ron was left standing in the dark. Standing and staring at the passage of invisible footprints that Al had left behind him. His body was still trembling with release, still heavy and hot with the feeling of Al, with the lingering pleasure of what he'd just experienced and what continued to run through his head like an overwhelming echo in his mind.

But Al was gone. And did it scratch that itch?

Ron wasn't all together sure.

As it turned out, it didn't. It didn't work at all. If anything, it only seemed to shift Ron's attention from where it had settled for so long. True, he no longer felt the recurring bouts of longing that consistently rose and fell around Harry. That much he was grateful for, and in that regard yes, an itch certainly had been scratched.

Except that it hadn't been vanquished. Not entirely. More correctly, it was as though Ron's focus had shifted from Harry to Al. Ron wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not. Probably a bit of both.

He was focused. It helped that Al wasn't around as much, that he didn't see him at work, but when he did it was as though Ron couldn't look away. It was a struggle to affix his gaze upon anything but Al when they were in the room together. Ron wondered if anyone else noticed. He wondered if Hermione noticed, even when she hadn't for so many years. She was perceptive but oddly blind to this aspect of Ron's corruption. He found that if anything he could only be grateful for that.

Yes, Ron was guilty. He was ashamed, mortified even, that he'd acted upon his longings and fucked Al. That he'd fucked his nephew, which just made it even worse. But worst of all was that Ron didn't regret it. The only reason he'd wished he hadn't done it was because of what it meant for the rest of the world, but for Ron? For him it had scratched that itch. It had left a bigger one behind, perhaps, but it had hit the spot that Ron hadn't known had been nagging at him so incessantly for so long. Yes, he felt guilty. Yes, he knew he shouldn't have done it. And yes, he wanted more.

It wouldn't happen, though, that much Ron knew. It couldn't, and not only because Al seemed to truly have no further interest in pursuing such an endeavour. As Ron perceived it from him, he'd helped Ron out and that was the end of it. Maybe he'd gotten some pleasure from it too - Ron sincerely hoped he had if only because that would make the idea slightly less horrendous - but he had no further desires himself. The reason for that slapped Ron in the face as unexpectedly as the entire situation had.

He walked in on them. On Al and Charlie, on Charlie and Al. They weren't doing anything particularly incriminating but there could be no confusion about it. Not in the slightest. Ron thought he managed to escape the living room of the old Burrow before either of them noticed, but the image was still impressed upon his mind. Of Charlie and Al, arms wrapped around each other and leaning into one another with more intimacy than would ever be considered appropriate for an uncle and his nephew to share.

But it was intimate, and in a way that Ron hadn't shared with Al. There was no passionate desperation, no neediness, no sharp, fast seeking of fulfillment. It was comfortable and collected, soothing and affectionate. It was as though they actually shared something. To Ron, it seemed that maybe, probably, almost certainly, he might have stumbled upon the reason for Al's love of Romania.

Ron wouldn't tell anyone about it. He couldn't in good conscience do so, not after what he'd shared with Al, if only briefly. Even if it confused him to no end, because if Al had so readily fucked Ron, what was he to Charlie? It was all just a ball of confusion that Ron didn't know what to make of. He was a mess of guilt, jealousy and incomprehension when it came to Al, pervaded by a desperate longing, and there was nothing he could do about any it. There was no one that he could talk to.

In the end, Al left. With Charlie, of course, which had an entirely knew meaning to it now for Ron. And Ron was left with an insatiable longing once more. But that was alright. Really. He was used to it. Only that this time, it wasn't Harry he longed for.

What kind of a fucked up situation was that?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can show your appreciation for the author in a comment here or on [livejournal](http://hp-nextgen-fest.livejournal.com/103492.html).


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